Guild Wars_ Edge of Destiny - J. Robert King [75]
Her smile faded slightly, but she turned to the revelers all around and cried out, “Let the feast begin!”
A great cheer rocked the rafters of Hoelbrak.
And what a feast it was! The fires of Hoelbrak had been stoked, and six caribou turned on spits above them. There were kettles of stew and mounds of bread and barrels of beer. The whole hall filled, with revelers arriving throughout the day and evening. Every warrior in the area converged to gaze on this ragtag band, came to lift a mighty flagon to their health and hear them tell their tales of valor.
As the ale and mead flowed, the crowd thickened around Snaff and Zojja, the best storytellers in the group. Snaff’s account was florid and fantastic, and Zojja’s interruptions were comically earnest. When they pantomimed Sandy’s fight against the whirling cyclone, the hunting hall filled with laughter and cheers.
Caithe endured the festivities as long as she could. The crowd was unsettling to her—so many people crossing paths, so many false words spoken. Snaff was perhaps the worst. Everything he said was an exaggeration, which meant a lie, but still the norn roared with approval.
“Why should the Dragonspawn’s defeat be commemorated with lies?” Caithe wondered to herself as she stepped from the hunting hall.
“You never could enjoy a party,” came a voice like scarlet silk.
Caithe gasped, turning to see Faolain. “What are you doing here?”
“I’ve been following you,” Faolain said, standing in her black-orchid dress, leaning in so that her warm breath wafted across Caithe’s ear. “I’ve watched you risk your life to kill a dragon champion. Foolish girl.”
Caithe stared quizzically at her. “You act as if it is nothing.”
“It is nothing. Your life is too precious for this.”
Caithe pushed Faolain back. “I don’t belong to you.”
“Don’t you?” Faolain’s black fingernails flashed to pull back the collar of Caithe’s shirt. There, above her heart, a black handprint marked her skin. “Your heart belongs to me.”
“No!” Caithe said, prying Faolain’s hand loose and turning away. “I reject the Nightmare.”
“But you love me.” Faolain nodded toward Eir and Rytlock within the hunting hall. “Do they love you, as I do?”
Caithe scowled. “I don’t know what they feel. They are a mystery to me.”
“But I am not. There are no mysteries between us.” Faolain’s black eyes grew suddenly intense. “Join me! The Dream is only a dream. The Nightmare is the reality.”
“Leave me.”
The dark sylvari took an unsteady step toward Caithe. “My love is poisoning you. You cannot be without me.”
“Go!”
Snaff was in the middle of another retelling when Caithe staggered into the hunting hall as if drunk—except that she had tears running down her cheeks.
Snaff broke away from the group he had been entertaining and approached Caithe. “Tears?”
Caithe dashed them away. “They’re nothing.”
“Nothing? They’re everything. They’re what you feel. Why are you crying?”
“It’s nothing,” Caithe averred, rubbing her hand on her cheek.
Snaff said levelly, “You wouldn’t cry unless the world itself was in danger.”
Her eyes glistened. “It is!”
“What danger?” Snaff asked.
“The dragons. No one is fighting the dragons, but we must. We stopped a dragon champion, but what about the power behind him?”
“You’re right,” Snaff said gently, “but that’s not why you’re crying.”
Caithe stared at him, her eyes wide but searching, trying to decide if she could trust him. “It’s that someone I care about has chosen the wrong path.”
Snaff bowed his head and pursed his lips. “Anyone I know?”
“No.” Caithe shook her head. “Another sylvari. She has gone to Nightmare.”
Snaff nodded. “I’m sorry. Every creature must choose her own path.